


When Memory Fails

by palpablenotion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Annoyed Castiel (Supernatural), But also, Dean Being Dean, Dean not being Dean, Season/Series 05, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2018-10-18 20:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10624737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palpablenotion/pseuds/palpablenotion
Summary: He's in a hotel room with fake IDs, fake (or stolen) credit cards, guns and knives, lighter fluid and a lighter that's been in a fire hot enough to scorch metal, and he doesn't know who he is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my livejournal fic that I'm importing. Kept the formatting.
> 
>  **Title:** When Memory Fails  
>  **Author:** [](http://destial.livejournal.com/profile)[**destial**](http://destial.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Pairing:** pre Dean/Cas  
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Warnings:** Typical amnesiac drama, plus Dean being Dean. Well, Dean not being Dean, sort of. Like I said, typical amnesiac drama.  
>  **Spoilers:** Set between 5x03 and 5x04, so up to 5x03. Short extra after the fic that has 5x04 spoilers.  
>  **Word Count:** 3,272  
>  **Notes/Prompt(s):** Okay, so I wrote this for Secret Angel IV and can finally claim it on my own journal! I wrote it for [](http://kyokohitsuji.livejournal.com/profile)[**kyokohitsuji**](http://kyokohitsuji.livejournal.com/) for her prompt "Dean loses his memory is scared and silent, trusting only Cas." Not followed to the T, but I like to think it's realistically close. Beta'd by the lovely and intelligent [](http://weimar27.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://weimar27.livejournal.com/)**weimar27**.  
>  **Summary:** _He's in a hotel room with fake IDs, fake (or stolen) credit cards, guns and knives, lighter fluid and a lighter that's been in a fire hot enough to scorch metal, and he doesn't know who he is._

**When Memory Fails**

He wakes up and thinks of pain. No, that's not right. He feels it. It throbs in places – his head, his knees, his shoulder – and merely aches everywhere else, the way muscles ache the day after a good work out.

He doesn't remember working out, doesn't remember ever going to a gym and using the machines there, which he knows is how normal people exercise.

Instead, he tries to remember what he did yesterday, but can't. There's no yesterday in his head. No last month, no last year. He can't remember ever having done anything but wake up and hurt, but he remembers things. He's a man and the sky is blue. The gas is on the right and the brake is on the left. He can imagine tying a shoe, but he doesn't know what his shoes look like and can't think of the rhyme that goes along with it, but knows that one does and that he _should_ know it.

He's like a canvas, covered in color but with no discernible shapes.

He has a strange thought, just for a moment, that maybe he didn't exist until just now. That God had set him down in the middle of the universe, brand new and ready to go. God, unknowable and uncaring, that he knows better than himself right now.

The thought causes him to laugh and he learns that his voice is deep and strained, that his throat hurts as if it's been squeezed but not as if he's screamed himself hoarse. He doesn't know how he knows the difference, but it's there.

He moves and pain doesn't double him over or lay him out. His knees worry him, when he first bends them, but they hold him steady.

He's in a hotel room. There is a single twin bed, a kitchenette against the outer wall, and a small table with two chairs. The table is what draws his attention, though. There's a duffel bag open and spread across it, a sawed-off shotgun lying on top. A thrill runs through him, but it doesn't overly concern him. There are reasons to have a shotgun, even a sawed-off. The other contents of the duffel do worry him, though. There's a crowbar made of bare, gray, dense metal, an (empty) can of lighter fluid, another can that is half full of rock salt, and an array of smaller weapons, including a pistol and several throwing knives.

He isn't sure what scares him more – that he has these objects, for whatever reason, or that his mind was so ready to supply him with their titles.

A sense of urgency grabs at him, then, and he starts patting himself down for a wallet. He's fully dressed, for some reason, but there's nothing in his jeans but a few spare coins. He finds a beat up zippo in the pocket of his flannel shirt; half of it is stained with burn markings and he drops it as if it were still hot.

There's a leather jacket thrown over a chair and he searches the inner pockets first. There's a badge there, a sheriff's badge. This doesn't comfort him. So far he's found at least one illegal gun and enough circumstantial proof to have him arrested for arson – a police badge probably means he stole it or killed the guy that it belonged to.

One of the outer pockets has a bag in it, a little paisley pouch – tied shut – that he considers opening but between the smell and the police badge he'd already found, he doesn't think he can handle whatever surprise lies within.

There was nothing of use in identifying himself in the coat, so he reluctantly goes back to the duffel. There are side pockets, one on the outside and one on the inside. It is in the inner pocket that he finds the credit cards. Four, with four different names. There are also two IDs, both with the same picture – his picture? – but with names that match two different cards.

He should be full out panicking, but logic (that he knows someone like him doesn't live by) told him his wallet would contain his true identity. And there it was, a brown leather wallet laying half open on the nightstand.

Trembling hands work it open. There is money stuffed in, far too many of them large bills. The ID had the same picture as the other two, so even when he reads the name ‘Ben Richards,' he knows it isn't his name.

Now he's panicking. He's in a hotel room with fake IDs, fake (or stolen) credit cards, guns and knives, lighter fluid and a lighter that's been in a fire hot enough to scorch metal, and he doesn't know who he is.

He's well on his way to hyperventilating when he notices the cell phone beside the wallet. Cautiously – though why be cautious now? Unless there were pictures of dead bodies, he didn't think it could teach him anything too shattering – he opened it.

**1 New Txt Message**

He opens it and, with a sense of numbness, stares at the message that was revealed.

 _Where are you?_  
From: Cas

Cas?

He exits out of that message and pulls up the inbox, for the first time, except he'd have done it before because there are read messages there. They're all from Cas. He picks his way through a few of them and they're all the same.

_Where are you?_

_Dean, where are you?_

_Dean. Tell me where you are._

It was odd how reading these messages make him feel separate from himself – as separate as you can be from someone you don't know.

If nothing else, this has taught him his name. Dean. It feels like his, familiar, the same way the term man had felt familiar. Like it was an innate part of who he was.

And apparently this Cas wants to find him. There are calls from him, too, and not just missed. He'd received quite a few, made even more. When he looks at the contact list, Cas is on speed dial.

So whoever this person is, he's (she's?) not only looking for him but appeared to warrant some important place in his life. There are only three numbers on his speed dial and he can't find any calls coming in or going out to Bobby and Sam appears only twice, both in the received call list.

This Cas person could help.

His thumb is resting against the send button but hesitates. He stands up and walks towards the door he knows contains the bathroom, still not sure. At the sight of his reflection, though, his thumb presses down out of a reflex to clench his fists.

There's blood down the left side of his face and there is definitely swelling. And he was right about his throat; there is a bruise in the shape of a long, thin hand across it. As far as he can tell, that's all that's wrong, but he doesn't have time to look because his phone is saying, "Dean? Dean?"

Huh. So Cas is a man.

"Hello? Cas?"

"Dean, is something wrong?"

"Um, I-"

"Where are you?"

"Oh." He thinks about it, about the notepad he knows he saw on the nightstand. "The Road Star Inn. Um, in Madison, I think."

"Wisconsin?"

"I think so."

"Dean, what room are you in?"

He doesn't remember finding a key so there was no way he knows the room number.

"I don't know."

There is a pause on the line before Cas speaks again.

"You don't know? Dean, how don't you know?"

"Have you been looking for me?" Dean asks instead of answering.

There's another pause from Cas before a stiff, "I'll be right there," and then he hangs up.

He's not sure that was the smartest thing to do. His hotel room is covered in illegal paraphernalia and he either kept leaving Cas behind in the dust or he hadn't been telling the dude where he was, because there's no other reason for a guy to send that many ‘Where are you?' messages to someone.

And he is bruised and bloody for some reason. For all he knows, this Cas is an abusive bastard. Maybe he was the one that did this to Dean and that's why there were so many calls, so many messages. Maybe that pistol and sawed-off were protection for- for what? An abusive boyfriend?

But that doesn't feel right. The name Cas had felt familiar on his tongue, like he'd said it a thousand times. It felt like his own name did, like it belongs to him, like it is central to who he was. These thoughts, however, feel foreign and paranoid. They feel like betrayal and Dean had known Cas' name longer than his own; he'd learned his name from Cas. He can't betray him like this, even if he doesn't know anymore than his name and his voice.

Since there isn't really much else to do until Cas gets there – and who knew how long that would take – he decides to shower. A fresh set of clothing is sitting on top of the toilet, as if he'd planned on doing this last night (this morning? A week ago?) when he got in. All things considered, he'd probably passed out on the bed as soon as he made it to the bed, literally.

The hot water feels nice on his aching muscles but stings the cut on his head. He can't find a bump, just swelling around an open cut, so he's not entirely sure that he hit his head, but what else would explain his memory loss?

The shower is nice but he doesn't draw it out. Dean is careful about drying his head; there's just a little bit of blood on the towel, which is good, because he doesn't know what to do otherwise.

The clothes – a tee shirt and sweatpants – hang loose on him. Something tells him this shirt isn't his own; he doesn't feel comfortable wearing something so big, but the smell of it is comforting.

When he opens the bathroom door, he sees a man standing at the foot of his bed. Dean's breathing hitches but he doesn't sway backwards. He stands his ground and sets his jaw.

"Dean."

It's that voice, the low gravely tone he's only heard over the phone, the only voice in the world besides his own as far as he knows.

"Cas."

Cas somehow is and isn't what he expected. He's small – smaller than Dean, at least – but has this impressive air about him; Dean's hit with the conflicting urge to back away and step closer.

He's also staring at Dean with such intensity and he can't help the thrill that courses through him. The phrase ‘abusive boyfriend' runs through his mind too, but he feels no fear when he meets Cas' otherworldly blue eyes. There is just a sense of calm, an innate trust and the same sense of familiarity that was brought on by their names. Dean has the insane urge to touch him, to see if he's pliable and soft or if he's as hard and unmoving as his gaze.

"You're acting very odd," Cas says and Dean snorts. If anyone would know that, he sure as hell wouldn't. "What's wrong?"

Dean doesn't know why the thought of answering that question freaks him out. He called Cas to help him, but when he opens his mouth, something else comes out, as if his brain decided not to consult him on this change of subject.

"What am I running from, Cas?"

"Dean."

He flinches, not at the volume because it wasn't any louder than anything else Cas had said. The word sounds heavy, though, as if a great conviction lies beneath it, as if Cas is saying quite a bit and not just his name. He is staring even harder, even more intently, but his brow is furrowed – In concern? In confusion? – and his head is canted, just slightly, to one side.

"Tell me what's wrong, Dean."

"I can't remember anything," he says and attempts a half hearted shrug even though it isn't nothing.

"What do you mean by anything?"

"Anything, man. Everything. I have no idea who you are or who I am." He flails an arm in the direction of the table and Cas doesn't even glance at it, like he just knows and accepts that he has guns and knives and lighter fluid. "I have no idea why I even have that crap. There is nothing, no memories at all, before waking up in here."

"No memories? Not even of Sam?"

"Who the hell is Sam?" Dean asks, and he honestly wants to know. Faced with this man, he wants to remember so badly who he is.

His question causes Cas to frown. It's a deep frown, affecting his forehead and his hairline, affecting his eyes which are still staring at him, haven't stopped staring at him yet. Dean feels a faint affection for that expression, which heightens when the other man's lips twitch, as if unsure how to do that steady glide into an upside down smile.

"Get on the bed."

And that is not what he was expecting.

"What?"

"Sit down or lie down on the bed, Dean. You won't wish to be standing for this."

A spark of excitement runs through him. He's not sure what Cas will do, but he sits down against the headboard, one leg throwing itself over the other one on instinct when he brings them onto the bed too.

But Cas isn't paying attention to him anymore. He's rifling through his stuff, the hotel's stuff, anything he can seem to think of. Peaking behind the curtain – Dean's pretty sure he's looking at the sill and not out the window – opening drawers, looking under the bed. At one point he even shoves Dean forward, so he's bent over at the waist and Cas has room to look under his pillow.

"Cas! What are you doing?"

"I think," he replies, with much concentration, "that you were hunting something when something else found you. Have you seen any drawstring pouches?"

"Hunting?" This word feels familiar too, but it sits heavier than either of their names did. He doesn't want it. "I hit my head."

Cas glances at the side of his face – which is when Dean realizes how close they are – and shakes his head.

"These wounds were caused by human fingernails. They could not have taken your episodic memories."

This time his breath hitches for a completely different reason. The panic is rising again.

"Human fingernails? Oh god."

Cas looks at him, curious. After a moment, his eyes flex wide in realization.

"Dean, I know this is strange," he says and his voice is strained, as if unused to spewing platitudes. "Trust me to take care of this."

And he does, God help him. He's still freaking out a little about a human being clawing at his head (that can't mean anything good) but he's no longer in danger of hyperventilating again.

"This is very important," Cas says, studying his face now. "Have you seen a drawstring pouch?"

He thinks about it. There aren't many memories he's formed, yet, but they feel like too many for a moment.

"There's a paisley pouch," he finally recalls. "In the jacket."

Cas doesn't hesitate. He's across the room with the pouch in his hand in under a second. He fists the pouch, then spares Dean a glance.

"Don't fall off the bed," Cas orders and crushes the contents of the pouch with a clench of his fist.

He wants to ask why the hell he'd fall off the bed, but he's a little distracted by the sudden searing pain between his temples. His head slams back against the wall and he's grabbing at the sheets, hard enough to cause a rip. His whole body twitches and he's fairly certain he's about to crack his skull against the wall again but something stops him. He twitches a few more times, each one smaller, less jerky, than the last. The pain fades away with them until finally he's just sitting there, panting.

He opens his eyes as Dean Winchester and stares up at the annoyed face of Castiel, angel of the Lord. Cas' hands are holding his head away from the wall – he's what stopped him from bludgeoning himself, apparently.

"If you just gave yourself amnesia with that little stunt, I don't know what I'll do Dean."

He grins, because it's either that or bristle and all that information rushing back to him kind of wore him out.

"C'mon Cas, a little massive head injury's never hurt me."

"Do you know why a witch would choose to curse you? You have the equipment of a ghost hunt out."

He thinks about it and groans, remembering the neighbor of the last victim and her stupid paisley quilt she was making and ever so proud of.

"Paisley ass bitch," he mutters, then tells Cas the address.

"I will take care of this."

With that he is gone.

Dean lets his head fall back against the wall, wincing at the impact.

All in all, he thinks he handled the whole amnesia thing pretty well. Far better than Sammy had back in high school. That little girl had been afraid of Dean and cried when he realized he couldn't remember anything. Sure, he might have been holding a gun when Sam came to, but Dean had been faced with an angel's intensity and not shit himself in fear.

He should probably wonder about his reaction to Cas, think it over and figure out why the hell he'd kept getting those little thrills, for one. He had pretty much assumed Cas was some sort of obsessive lover and hadn't been bothered by it.

 _So why bother with it now?_ he asks himself. _Got enough on my plate already without freaking out about this._

Cas is only gone ten minutes.

"I have spoken with the witch," he pronounces gravely. "She meant no harm, merely wished you not to hunt her. The spell got a little, um, out of hand. She will not do it again."

Dean snorts.

"Did you make her promise to be a good little demon worshiper?"

"I told her if she does anything like that again, I'll let the hunter speak with her next time."

And who wouldn't grin like a fool at that?

"Are you fully restored now, Dean?"

He cuts a glance at Castiel before shrugging.

"Might have given myself a concussion getting it back, but yea, it's all back. Nice job, by the way, telling me not to fall off the bed before doing that. Because I could totally control that."

"Would you rather I held your hand and pet your hair?"

Dean chokes on his own spit, he's laughing so hard at that. It was a line he used on Sammy not too long ago and hearing it from Cas – even as his stupid brain thinks it over – is possibly the greatest thing to happen in a long time.

"Yea, Cas," he manages, having to forcibly stop himself from laughing (and Cas looks pleased with himself for that, even though he'd been irritated before). "Next time some fresh from college wicca steals away my memories and I have to call you for help, I'd love it if you held my hand."

He probably would too, the sissy. But he grins and enjoys Cas grinning back, looking so proud that he'd amused Dean again.

Amazing what you learn when you don't know not to.

 

_Fin_

* * *

**AN:** Because I finished this early, it kept nagging at me until I wrote this little conversation between Sam and Dean when they get back together. I can potentially be talked into writing more in this 'verse, but until that happens, I'll just share their convo with you guys.

 

* * *

 

Sam settles into the passenger seat with a contented sigh. Dean knew he'd never admit it out loud, because then Dean would be forced to tease him about it, but he very clearly had missed the Impala.

_Of course he did_ , Dean thinks with a snort. _Who wouldn't?_

"So," Sam drawls after a while, breaking the surprisingly comfortable silence they'd been sitting in for the last hour. "I miss anything interesting?"

Dean grunts.

"Not much. Wasted a vamp. Took Cas to an 'establishment of ill repute.'" Dean takes the time to leer at Sam there, partially to get the point across, partially to see his scowl, apparently offended on Castiel's behalf. "Talked to a ninja angel. Nothing fancy."

Sam has that slightly constipated look on his face; he's considering asking for details, but pretty sure he doesn't want them.

"Oh, yea," Dean says as he remembers his most recent adventure. "Got my memory wiped by a panicked witch I wasn't even hunting."

"Huh," Sam says. They lapsed into silence for a minute before Sam asks, "Learn anything?"

"Like what?"

"Don't know. Dad told me once the best time to learn anything is when you don't know anything. When I got blanked back in high school, I learned my big brother is absolutely terrifying to people that aren't me or dad."

"What?" Dean barks, affronted. "I am not!"

Sam's expression is not amused.

"Dean, I grew up thinking it was normal for you to be frothing at the mouth and homicidal every time I got hurt. Turns out I just was used to it."

Dean concedes that much at least. He'd come to terms with his protectiveness concerning Sam a long time ago.

"So, what'd you learn?"

"Dunno, kinda what you said, I think." Dean taps his ring against the wheel absently, considering how to word this. "Easy to miss out on something that's already there if you never noticed it before."


End file.
